


Fifty Shades of Violet

by yesfir



Series: Species Swap Boogaloo [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe Earth C, Anal Fingering, Begging, Biting, Blow Jobs, Bulges and Nooks (Homestuck), Edging, Facials, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Smut, Frottage, Hair-pulling, Hand Jobs, Hubris, Humor, Humorous Ending, I Will Go Down With This Ship, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Minor Dave Strider/Karkat Vantas, NSFW Art, Oh also, Penetration, Praise Kink, Reverse Cowgirl, Scratching, Shameless Smut, Shenanigans, Species Swap, Tenderness, Tentabulges (Homestuck), Tentacle Sex, Wet & Messy, all of these are v brief but, and also, and the rest of the body too, but mostly just, dirk has one, dirk is doused in purple is what i'm saying, dirk is thirsty, dirk stares at and grabs muscles a lot, don't look at me, except it's a tentacle, government-mandated horse references, his true nemesis, hmm as for content warnings, jake is a gentle but firm top, jake is a troll, minor pale jake english/eridan ampora, mostly it's just cute porn, okay CRACKS KNUCKLES, sexy bug noises, violetblood jake
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-18 10:55:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28742118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yesfir/pseuds/yesfir
Summary: Being the adopted son/brother of famous movie producer Dave Strider is pretty sweet, but he does tend to be more than a bit overbearing in an I'm A Cool Mom kind of way. So now that Dirk has decided to take the plunge andget his rainbow wingserrget intimate in a tentacle kind of wayfuck, just go pick up a guy at a troll bar, it's going to be when Dave is out of town, and that's final. Once the stars align he finds Jayquh, almost literally a fish out of water in the bar scene... which is just as well, because it's not like Dirk really knows what the fuck he's doing either.They do manage to figure it out, however. And maybe Dirk will get a bit more than he's angling for.(fish puns will in fact be kept at a minimum in the fic. i make no such promises regarding horse references or Stupid Strider Similes[tm].)
Relationships: Jake English/Dirk Strider
Series: Species Swap Boogaloo [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2107203
Comments: 5
Kudos: 47
Collections: DirkJake Big Bang 2k21





	Fifty Shades of Violet

**Author's Note:**

> my first fic for the dirkjake week big bang! my eternal thanks to everyone who helped me proofread, sprinted together with me, made dumb jokes w me, and in general made writing this an absolute delight.
> 
> special thanks to elsen for making the art for this fic, ny has been an absolute treasure to work with, and nys art is everything i hoped for and more <3 you should all find nym on tumblr (elsenborn) for more gorgeous stuff.

You don’t remember life as it was before your big bro took you in. Everything you know is second hand; about how he’d left his shithole home at fifteen, and never even looked back until he found out about you. You were only just turned three years old then, most likely far too young to have formed any lasting memories, but you’ve heard the story so many times that it doesn’t matter. Every time you think of it you see it clear as day, just like in one of your bro’s movies. How he’d come back home and he fought for you. Well, not literally, as sweet as it would be to imagine a formal duel on life and death. Instead it had mostly been paperwork and statements and lawyers. He’d showed the scars on his body, turned himself inside out and dumped the still smoldering ashes of a burning wreck of a childhood in front of anyone who cared to look.

The funny thing is, you’re not even related. You mean, you _could_ be, but probably not. No, you were just another foster care kid in the hands of folks who had no business taking care of one. But when your bro had made sure that those people wouldn’t have a chance to fuck you up like they’d done with him, and they’d been prepared to chuck you back in the system, your brother had said nah, it’s fine. He walked right in there, looked ‘em in the eye and told them, hey don’t worry, I’ll take the kid. And yeah he was young, but he was also already a rising star, had a comfortable life and plenty of space for one scrawny kid who had nowhere else to go. Somehow no one could think of a way of contradicting him when he started speaking, he’s always had that effect on people, and on one crackling dry day in July, Dave Strider had walked out of that dusty office with a whole kid in his arms.

Apparently when he came home, his then-housemate had asked where the hell the kid came from, and he’d stared her down, shrugged and said, “This one? Found it at the supermarket. It’s real cool how sometimes they just put them in shopping carts for people to grab. Saves a lot of hassle. Oh, and there was like a fuckton of canned tuna in the cart too, but I dumped it in the baking section because I’m firmly morally opposed to that shit. Kills dolphins.”

Auntie June always mimics Dave’s deadpan when they tell the story together, and then they both crack up like dorks, and you pretend to be embarrassed about how dumb they’re being, but the hand-to-heart truth is that you love it. Every single time. It’s your favorite story in the world.

Anyway, that was a lot of years ago, and things have changed. You and Dave ostensibly live in separate flats, except it’s actually just his ridiculously huge studio apartment that he’s split in two so you can both have some privacy now that you’re a goddamn adult. He’s said he’s happy to pay for somewhere else for you to live while you’re still studying, that he understands if you need a bit more space, but you just shrug in response. You hope he interprets the shrug as you not caring enough to go through the hassle of moving, and not actually the sincere acknowledgment of how much you still crave his company and don’t feel quite ready to spread your wings yet that it in fact is.

Also… you know he’s a popular guy, obviously. He’s rich and famous, which is the sort of thing that draws people in, and on top of that he’s funny, smart and friendly, to the point where he could be described as almost aggressively social. But you nonetheless notice that the only friends that consistently stick around for longer than a month are people he’s already known for ages, and the guys he dates don’t even stick around for that long. Sure it’s nice that he’s no longer doing lip service to the hetero agenda and actually trying to convince anyone that he’s straight, but honestly the girls he ‘dated’ tended to have more staying power, and Jaedel is among the select few that still stop by, usually to shoot the shit and do incredibly inadvisable science experiments in his microwave. She’s got her own career, though, flying all over the world to give lectures and party so hard that you think she might actually be exhausting the paparazzi. And, well, June lives with her girlfriends in a troll city on the other side of the state, and Rose and her wife are honestly lucky to have found each other, since they’re both equally married to each other and to their work, which happens to be in the same fucking hospital. You’re kind of assuming that when their kid comes around, they’ll just set up a nursery there.

The point is, you’re worried that your brother will be alone if you move out. So you don’t.

It’s honestly pretty sweet. You both do your own thing, you go to class and hang out with friends or whatever, he busts ass working at whichever project(s) he’s immersed in, but whenever neither of you are doing anything else in the evening, you have a meal together and hang out. You quiz him on whatever he’s got going out, he asks the appropriate questions about school, you both talk about The Future without stressing about it; it’s all very wholesome. Sometimes you do ironic self care evenings, and you would never admit under even the most vicious of torture that those have done wonders both for your mental health and your skin. You usually start by going to a hair salon and get your roots did, because nothing honestly says self care more than not pouring bleach in your own eye and ending up with bright yellow hair and accidentally relaxed curls for your trouble. Then you do face masks and hair treatments to mitigate the effect of the bleach and chill in the hot tub and drink smoothies and fuck it, even if you have to keep up the ironic ‘look at me and my bougie mom and our extensive home spa’ act, that shit is good for the soul.

In fact you would say there’s not a single downside to sort of still living with your bro at age twenty-two, except for one thing. Unsurprisingly, it’s got to do with _your_ sex life. Of course your bro is supportive, it’d be pretty stupid if he was not, but that’s just it, the man is honestly _too_ damn supportive. Maybe it’s just because he was closeted for too long, and he doesn’t want you to ever go through that shit, but well, as touching as that is you feel like maybe you’re well past the point where that’s even a slim possibility by now. The only time in your life when you’ve been closeted was back when your absolute disgust at the idea of kissing girls could be taken as a youthful aversion to cooties. If you tried to get back into the closet now, you’d probably have one of those awkward Narnia experiences where a million years have passed since you were there last, and all that’s left are cryptic cave paintings of giant cockroaches eating Aslan’s decaying corpse.

Whenever you’ve had a guy over, he will inevitably ask questions about it. He tries so damn hard to be casual about it too, something you think he might have delusions about being good at, but in fact his performance is thoroughly abysmal. On a scale of horribly embarrassing interactions, he lands somewhere between ‘how do you do, fellow youths’ and Regina George’s mom. Staying over with someone else doesn’t actually solve the problem, because while you wouldn’t necessarily call him a helicopter parent, he does have an eerily good memory when it comes to your lectures and other social engagements. And you know, of course you do, that he’s just trying to show interest and indicate that he cares, you _get_ that, but you would also rather tie your tongue to the back of a pickup and tear it out of your throat than actually talk about this one specific topic with him. It’s bad enough when you got Grindr for the first time, and he immediately popped up on your screen, reminding you that the two of you are in fact frequently splashing around in the same dating pool of horny men in the area who are also awake at 3AM.

All of this taken together adds up to one currently very pertinent fact: The first time you have sex with a troll guy, there is literally no way in hell that you’re gonna do it while he’s home. You utterly refuse. You can picture so clearly his need to be _extra_ supportive because interspecies stuff can still be Controversial even in this day and age, and god, if he makes any awkward jokes about it on top of that you’ll never have to worry about getting up in time for a lecture again, because you will put yourself eternally to bed with a shovel. This is where you draw the line. This is the hill you’re willing to die on. Dave is going to be out of town for at least a fucking week or there will be no tantalizing tentacles for you, no sir.

Luckily for you, it’s not long before he becomes even more involved than he normally is in one of his projects. Now that he’s a famous director/producer with lots of money to throw around, his favorite thing in the world is to find small indie studios with some ambitious project that they just do not have the budget for, and make it happen for them. For real, that is. He doesn’t just sweep in and basically steal the movie from them in all but name, no, he makes sure that all the people involved stay involved, that everyone gets properly credited, and he’ll only bring in industry professionals when specifically requested. When he does, he makes sure that the people in question reflect the ethnicity / culture / species / blood caste / etc of the people actually making the movie. He _works_ at it. He even refuses to put his name on the finished product, but the knowledge of his involvement of course draws crowds anyway. You’re painfully proud of him and his work, and currently his dedication also plays right into your very important plan regarding getting absolutely destroyed by a prehensile dong.

He’s been unusually scarce for a couple of months now, and breaks the news to you that he’s going to have to be gone at least a week with an air which is hard to capture with words, half apologetic and half positively giddy. He’s flying to Italy, where they’re apparently shooting an action/romance scene which may or may not involve making out on an exploding volcano. You crack some dry joke about how you didn’t know he was working on making the version of Lord of the Rings that the world both needs and deserves, and he grins and ruffles your hair as if you’re goddamn twelve. You refuse to start fussing with it before he’s out of eyeshot, only stand there stiffly and feel your spine crawl with the certainty that you look ridiculous, and he laughs at you, knowing exactly what you’re thinking. Then he’s slinging his usual traveling bag across his shoulder and gives you one last approving brotherly nod as he halts by the door. “Aight, see you in two weeks at most. Don’t do anything that I wouldn’t do without at least having photographic evidence of the fact – unless it might count against you in a court of law. Love you, kid.”

You don’t say anything back, don’t really need to, which is just as well because you’re already planning your evening several steps ahead, and you don’t want your voice to betray your eagerness for him to be gone. You’re sure you’ll miss him before he’s back, but right now you literally can’t wait to be rid of him.

* * *

TT: Okay, so we’re doing this.

TG: wait

TG: whos we?/??

TT: Well, I say we but in fact I mean me. This is a solo mission. I’m going in alone.

TG: boldly going where no man’s cone before

TG: *gone

TG: or i guess

TG: *come works too

TG: winkwonk etc

TT: Consider me thoroughly winkwonked at.

TT: Anyway, not necessarily? I mean, it’s not like I’ve got some fucked-up fixation with being the first human this hypothetical guy ever sleeps with or anything. I think we should stay extremely clear of any suggestion that this is anything apart from an important landmark on a young man’s journey of thoroughly appreciating dick in whatever form it may take, rather than some cringy attempt to make the experience as exotic as possible for everyone involved.

TT: The only reason this is even a thing at all is because of the previously mentioned precautions I have to take to avoid being woked to death by my bro. Not because specifically getting railed by a troll has to be a whole production in itself.

TG: lmfaoooo dirk RELAX it was a joke. i wasn’t trying to call u speciecist

TG: specielist

TG: speciesism

TG: FUCK

TG: look at me six whole months sober and i still cant type worth a damn :c

TT: To be fair, even if it’s obviously still a real thing that affects people’s lives, it will never actually look or sound like a real word. I think we’re just going to have to take the L on that one and move one.

TG: yea god ur rite

TG: anyway

TG: go get that 🐙🍆

GG: You know, I try to stay out of the chat when the two of you get like this, let boys be boys, et cetera. But I think I’ve got to ask…

GG: What on God’s green earth is that even supposed to mean? Octopus eggplant? Purple octopus?

TG: omg janey isn’t it obvious

TG: im telling him to get some TENTACLE DICK of any color he likes

TG: theres not one single proper bulge emoji bc i guess we still live in a society or whatever and i’m dong the best i can

TG: *u know what i’m not correcting that

TG: DONG THE BEST I CAN looks accurate to me

GG: In retrospect I knew I was going to regret this. Good heavens, you two.

GG: There’s nothing wrong with, well, meeting up with people and having a good time. I am not being a prude here!

TG: pffffffffff suuuuuure

TT: Doubt.

GG: Oh hush! :B

GG: All I’m saying that it doesn’t hurt to be a little bit respectful of one’s prospective partners, and maybe not quite so liberally and tactlessly discuss their genitalia before you even know their names. I don’t think a little decorum is too much to ask for.

TT: Bold of you to assume that I’m going to ask his name.

GG: You know, I should’ve known you’d say something like that, too. You’re hopeless! But just to prove I’m not being a prude – or any other moniker I know some people might like to come up with, for that matter – I will nonetheless wish you good luck. I hope you have a lovely evening!

TG: hey that’s what i was sayin too only in more colorful languages

TG: paintin the scenery w purple swayin bulges + the whole rest of the rainbow too

TG: like a beautiful field of flowers ready to be admired and maybe even picked

GG: Sigh!

GG: You make it sound like he’s going to take them home and mount them on the wall like trophies.

TG: hey our families aint the weird taxidermy enthusiasts

TT: No, she can keep talking. Go on Jane, it sounds fascinating.

GG: You know, I don’t think I will, thank you all the same. :B

GG: Now stop texting, dear, and get going! Time waits for no man.

TG: ye time is dicks n ur not gettin any by standin around lookin pretty

TG: or well you might, but only if you do it in a location where dicks are plentiful so go go go

TT: Wise words to live by.

TT: I’ll report back later.

* * *

You do as they say and don’t waste time. You close your private groupchat and take a little while to get ready to go out, before calling a cab to drop you off downtown, safe in the knowledge that you now have the official seal of approval from your two best friends. They usually provide a sufficiently good balance between reckless impulsivity and careful skepticism to not steer you too wrong in your decisions. Not that you necessarily _need_ their approval, because them having the final say on where and when and how you get laid would be pretty weird all around, and would obviously cross some kinds of boundaries. It’s just that… Look. You’re not _nervous_. Claiming something so outrageous would undoubtedly be the kind of baseless accusation which would warrant a challenge to the field of honor. But you will gracefully own that you’re finding yourself a little bit on the jittery and wary side as you carefully take in your surroundings.

It’s Friday night, so the sidewalk around you is fairly crowded, and a discordant mess of different beats and sporadically raised voices oozes from inside the buildings all around you. The thing is, bars really aren’t your scene. The issue that occupies your mind right now, for instance, is that they tend to be _noisy,_ and while you obviously aren’t looking for someone to _talk_ to, you detest muddled and confused communication.

You like knowing that your intentions are clear, that’s all. Tossing someone a couple of messages, which in plain text are able to sharply delineate what you’re looking for, means that there’s no need for superfluous negotiations and awkward explanations once you arrive at a guy’s place. But in bars people expect an unreasonable amount of inefficient ceremony, including but not limited to prolonged eye contact, aimlessly lingering hands, public clinging, yelling clumsily suggestive bullshit over the sound of music and a lot of other people who are also yelling, and dancing. On top of all that, you’re expected to ingest alcohol, and if you don’t you tend to be viewed as ‘stuck up’ and ‘no fun’, and for some inexplicable reason, ‘not interested’. Seriously. You turn down a guy’s drink and there’s always a chance that he’ll just take that as a rejection and walk away, as if you can’t totally be down to fuck without wanting to first lower your inhibitions.

Screw that. Your inhibitions are staying right the fuck where they are, but luckily they have exactly nothing to do with your willingness to get dicked down.

So yeah, you’ll be out of your element. But it’s nonetheless the more palatable option. There aren’t really that many hookup apps for trolls; from what you understand their cultural structure is basically anathema to negotiating casual sex in a text-based medium, there’s just too much room for misunderstandings in the absence of non-verbal cues. Anyway, you feel like it’d be inappropriate for your distinctly mammalian ass to get a profile on an app that is explicitly not made for you, so you’d quickly given that thought a pass.

As for the apps that advertise themselves as being aimed at those who are interested in meeting someone of the other species – XXX-species, intrbreedr, bucketlist, just to mention a few – well, hm… let’s just say that the names give a very clear idea of the content. Just a lot of creepily fetishistic assholes on both sides, and among the trolls there are also a suspicious amount of cooler hues looking specifically for a human ‘kismesis’. This to you sounds an awful lot like they’re the sort of dangerous creeps that other trolls can tell are bad news from miles off, so they’re looking for humans who’ll let them get away with it because they don’t know better. Either way, you can’t say for certain what you’d do if someone decided to call you ‘milk producer’ or ‘soft vertebrate’, _or_ talk about how easily destroyed your fragile human body is, but you know it wouldn’t be pretty.

Hence why you’re left to try to figure out more conventional methods of finding someone to get horizontal with for the evening, and like it or not, bars are usually where people go when they’re looking for no-strings hookups. On the bright side, at least going to a troll bar significantly reduces the risk of somebody trying to get you drunk. While trolls aren’t exactly incapable of metabolizing alcohol, they tend to either be extreme lightweights who pass out immediately, or require such great volumes that just a fraction would be enough to render a human comatose. So for obvious reasons, drinking with any other objective than staying properly hydrated is simply not a huge part of their party culture. As for the majority of their recreational drugs, they’re either extremely deadly to humans, or amount to eating the world’s most expensive skittle. Meaning that no one will look at you askance if you ask for a glass of soda, and if anyone tries to put anything in it, you’re free to parse it as attempted murder and lodge their horns through the nearest piece of drywall you can find.

...Right, yeah, so this is decidedly not the mindset you need right now. These are simply not sexy thoughts.

You try to stop your brain from doing what your brain usually does as you push open the door of your chosen bar and quickly descend the stairs. Your brain, predictably, stays right on its familiar bullshit, because it basically lives there and refuses to ever go out and see the sights if it can help it. So you’re somewhat keyed up as you enter the bar proper and glance around. Apart from one girl hanging out with a large group of troll friends in one corner, you’re unmistakably the only human in the whole room. Alright, that’s fine, you can play it cool. You’ll just get seated by the bar, close enough to someone else that you don’t look antisocial; that’s basically universal code for ‘hey come bother me, I have literally no other reason to be here’, isn’t it? Well, it is in most human bars, and while you don’t know whether it translates yet, it’s at least _a_ plan.

You’d carefully researched where to go, of course. It’s not generally a place focused on live music or dancing, meaning that it shouldn’t get too damn loud to carry out the most basic exchange. You love a good beat as much as the next guy, but there’s a time and a place, and the ambient music on the speakers is indeed kept at a reasonable level. More important, however – for reasons of wanting to avoid heinously awkward instances of misplaced interest – is the fact that the bar is an unofficial hangout spot for guys who are mainly interested in guys. There’s no such thing as a troll gay bar, of course, because they’re a lot more reasonable regarding not making a federal fucking issue about that, but it’s only tidy to have places that cater to different kinds of preferences. You’d also seen some forum posts indicating that the usual crowd skews toward trolls but tends to be somewhat mixed, so even though you feel like you’re sticking out like a sore thumb, you harbor some hopes that you’re just being a neurotic idiot and no one else gives a shit.

As you sip on a really very nice nonalcoholic cocktail, you glance around the room, hopefully affecting the look of someone who is just scanning idly for anyone they know, rather than trying to pick out potential targets, because put that way you have to admit that you sound like a serial killer. The people in the corner posse very clearly all know each other, joking and laughing, and you immediately write them off. They’re unlikely to welcome an intruding stranger. Damn shame, because one of the indigobloods has a nice face _and_ a chest that goes on for days. A couple of tables down along the back wall, something very tense appears to be going down between a tall jadeblood guy with impeccable hair and a violetblood who would probably be cuter if he wore less glittery eye shadow – but hey, who are you to judge? You have literally no idea if they’re currently breaking up, are just your average blackrom couple, or if they’re legitimately about to kill each other. Either way, you’re steering clear.

You’re contemplating a smaller group a bit further down your side of the central bar; there’s a goldblood guy there who is maybe a bit lankier than what you usually go for, but from the way he’s idly shuffling a deck of cards without even touching it… well, psionic powers can make up for muscles in more ways than one, that’s all you’re saying. You’ve just decided to maybe get up and move a bit closer, without being too obvious about it, when you notice the guy sitting all alone at a table on the opposite side of the bar.

You almost do an actual double-take, because holy shit. He’s just… _unreasonably_ handsome. Who the fuck gave him the right to have a jaw like that with those shoulders, first of all, and secondly, what is a guy like that doing sitting all alone anyway? You scrutinize him a bit more carefully, as if you’d be able to somehow pick up some kind of ‘hello, I kill people and nail their skin to my walls’-vibe which you might’ve missed at first, but you’re getting nothing. He looks kind of awkward and timid, that’s all. Sure, he’s a violet, but you’re not about to get into caste aversions which literally have no way of directly pertaining to you if you can help it. If he’s a dick, you can just shrug and walk away, and it’ll be no skin off your back. But you’d be an idiot if you didn’t at least try, right? Just look at the way his shirt clings to his body like it’s-

Oh shit. He absolutely just noticed you staring. He’s shifting awkwardly. Quick, do something!

Picking up your drink and abandoning the bar, you force yourself to stroll over in as unhurried a fashion as possible, as if that’s going to somehow make up for how you were caught straight up ogling him less than ten seconds ago. You can play it cool though. You’ve still got your shades on and you know your face is hard to read, so for now you’re not at a complete disadvantage. The troll guy is glancing sideways, as if he’s trying to work out if you might be heading for someone else, and still seems to be undecided on the matter by the time you stop by his table.

“Mind if I sit down?”

He seriously looks around again, even though you can’t see how he could be laboring under the delusion that you’re talking to anyone else. There’s literally no way the dude can’t know what he looks like. But still he does that strange head-ducking, shoulder-lifting motion of someone receiving a compliment they don’t think they deserve, nice to know that one doesn’t look any different on trolls, or more in general on someone built at approximately 1.5x scale to most human bodies. “Well, I- Of course not! Treat this somewhat sticky expense of padded seat as if it were your own, amigo. What gave you the urge to stroam all the way over hither?”

You manage not to wince. Look, you’re trying not to be culturally insensitive, and you know it’s somehow hugely important to trolls to develop an individual kind of verbal peculiarity which translates both to very specific patterns in their writing as well as vocal rhythm, mimicry and vocabulary. The whole Quirk thing is just deeply integrated into self-determination, which is something you’re way too preoccupied with yourself to really fling rocks at presumed sinners, at least unless you want to end up standing in the shattered remains of your own personal glass house. (The glass in this case obviously being all mirrors, because that’s how self-absorbed you are.)

It’s just that… wow, you hadn’t expected him to sound exactly like an early 20thcentury adventure novel for young boys. The ones with names like The Boys And The Homosexual Subtext Adventure or Biggles Confronts His Own Racism. It’s pretty jarring.

You still sit down, because again, it’s not exactly his conversation you’re interested in. And the oblivious act might be a little over the top, but you wouldn’t say that it doesn’t have its charm. “You seem to have come here on your own too. Maybe I was hoping to bond over that.” That should be straightforward enough without seeming pushy, right?

He lets out a self-conscious little laugh, and you see his eyes flicker to another part of the bar, even if you’re not quite fast enough to catch what he was looking at. “Well, I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong end of the fork there. By which I mean, I wasn’t exactly all on my lonesome when I first entered this fine establishment.”

You raise your eyebrows. Shit, does he mean that he came here with someone you’d missed? Maybe they’re just off to the bathroom, fuck, you clearly should’ve waited a moment before making a move. Or is he implying that he was ghosted? It seems a little on the heartless side to hope for the latter, but in the interest of not having just made a giant tool of yourself, you still do. “Yeah?” Prize-winning dialogue there, Dirk. If this was a dating sim, he’d probably evaporate like mist at your lack of smoothness.

“Yes indeedy.” He scratches one of his fins in a distracted manner. “To tell the truth, I was invited along here as, ah, something like moral support. For my moirail.”

Well, that could be worse. You’re definitely not poaching in that area. This is salvageable. “So you could say you came here as… moirail support?” ...Unless you blow it for yourself by making the lamest fucking pun in the history of the world. God damnit.

Except he laughs. Not even the standard modulated exhalation commonly used to acknowledge that what someone just said was intended to be funny and you are humoring them, but a proper full-belly laugh that carries on for long enough that you don’t think he’s faking it. Some of the people by the bar are actually turning around to look, though he doesn’t seem to notice. “Good one,” he says heartily, giving you a firm slap on the back that makes your ears ring and damn near unseats you. “I can’t imagine why you should want for company, if you keep delivering corkers like that one.”

“There’s a fairly self-evident reason for that,” you say, trying not to wheeze too obviously, massaging a spot where the table jostled your ribs. “I came here alone on purpose.”

“Oh? And why’s that?”

Okay, he’s got to be fucking with you now. You refuse to accept that he didn’t understand the very clear implication, which makes you wonder if he’s trying to get you to just spell out what you want, and what his angle is. You lean your chin on your hand, studying his face for any sign of whatever game he might be playing, but there’s literally nothing to be gleaned from his guileless smile other than polite interest and a kind of boyish enthusiasm which is… actually quite infectious. Something in your chest flutters weirdly, and you try to tell yourself that this is because you just noticed his teeth, no other reason. Those _are_ nice teeth. At least two full rows of them, razor sharp and gleaming white. Even the fact that the front ones are slightly oversized somehow just strikes you as charming rather than ridiculous, which seems like outright cheating somehow.

Fine, he can have it his way. “Because I wanted to find someone else who’s also looking for company. Wasn’t exactly planning going home alone, dude.”

He seems to take a moment to draw a line from A to B, and then he suddenly blushes bright violet, all the way out to the tip of his fins. Okay, you’re man enough to admit that’s cute as hell. “Oh.” He tugs absently at his collar, apparently a bit too hard, since he causes the upper shirt button to pop open, making him blush even harder. His fumbling attempts to close it again are not going anywhere, his claws getting caught in the buttonhole instead, and he makes a frustrated little sound.

You raise your eyebrows. “You need help with that?”

That seems to throw him, and he seemingly gives up on the button, giving you an uncertain look. “I’m sorry, but ah, what- Well, forgive me but I’m not entirely certain what you’re implying.”

He has defeated you; the urge to roll your eyes simply becomes too strong. Not that he can actually see that behind your shades, but it’s the principle of the matter. “Sex,” you say plainly. “I’m looking for someone to fuck me.”

You’d half expected him to practically explode or something, but instead he seems to relax a little bit. “Well, that sure as shooting leaves less room for interpretation. I’m sorry, it’s just… when you offered to help me…”

This time he’s the one who has to wait for your penny to drop, but it doesn’t take too long. “Okay, full disclosure: I one hundred percent just said that to mess with you. But a shot in the dark says that it sounded like I was flirting in entirely the wrong quadrant?”

“Well, as a general rule it’s considered a bit of a faux-pas to make a pale pass on a fella when his moirail is in the same room, even if said moirail is otherwise occupied,” he says with a lopsided little grin that once again does something unauthorized to your breathing.

“Alright, offering to help out with personal grooming is considered pale-flirting? Good to know. Sorry about that.”

“A quite brazen-faced one! But don’t worry, old chap, you weren’t to know.”

He’s somehow managed to get you both away from what you feel is the important topic at hand, and you’re not sure how to steer him back around to it. Maybe you should just keep talking and try to nudge him in the right direction? You cast around for something to say, and land on: “So which one’s your moirail? And what exactly are they occupied with that isn’t you?”

He flashes you a smile that you parse as the strangest mix of fond and mildly put-upon. “Well, like I said, he mostly asked me along as emotional backup, just in case his date happened to go all barnacle-shaped on him. I suppose if that happened, he wanted the reassurance cavalry rearing to go, ready to buck him right up again!” His smile widens a bit and he rolls his eyes. “He’s a bit fussbudgety, to say the least. Likes making himself into one quite byzantine challenge.”

You bite back a comment along the lines of, ‘ _Isn’t that the fucking point?’_ , because as far as you’re aware, moirallegiance practically depends on at least one party being a perpetual, exhausting drama machine. You do however realize that maybe being a dick about both his culture and his relationship isn’t going to make it any more likely that you’ll get laid tonight. “But as for that-” he begins, glancing once again in the direction he’d looked before, only to be cut short by a loud snarl and a hiss, followed by the sound of furniture scraping. A second later a vaguely person-shaped blur is hurled clean across the whole room, and only when it lands by the stairs does it resolve into the other violet, looking disheveled and glaring back in the direction from whence he’d been launched. The jadeblood steps over the tipped-over table with insolent grace and saunters after him, flexing the claws of one hand meaningfully, a slow smile spreading on his lips.

“Get a pail!” shouts someone in the corner group, and they all burst into raucous laughter.

“Gentlemen, please,” the tall bronzeblood behind the bar says in a bored voice, “I’m gonna have to ask you to take this somewhere else.”

Your companion turns to you, now managing to somehow look simultaneously amused and mortified. Apparently a constant emotional dichotomy is just a side-effect of pale feelings? “Well, I’d say that looks like his date is going just fine, and I won’t be required. Hold on, let me just-” He turns back. “I’m guessing you won’t need me around then, diamond-dear?”

The other violetblood looks mortified, while the jade bursts into a loud peal of laughter. “Begging you pardon, but you brought your _moirail_ along? That’s deliciously pathetic.”

“Oh yes, thank you _so_ very much, Jay.” Too-Much-Eye-Makeup jumps huffily to his feet, clearly trying to straighten his clothes with as much hauteur as he can muster. He glares at the jade. “He was the one who wanted to go with me, but what _ever_ , it’s not like it matters. Now are you comin or what?” Whatever his quirk is doing to his accent, it’s threatening to give you a tension migraine, so you’re glad when the jadeblood foregoes answering and just grabs the twat by his scarf, starting to drag him up the stairs without any further preamble.

“Yeah, I’d say you’re currently surplus to requirements,” you say, leaning a bit closer to draw your guy’s attention back where it belongs. You’re not prepared to give up yet. “I’m guessing Jay isn’t your whole name?” It sounds way too short, but you never know with troll spelling.

“What? Oh, no. That’s just a funny little thing he does with everyone’s names, cutting them short like that. My name’s Jayquh.”

Yeah, case in point. Whichever six letters actually go into that name, it sounds exactly like ‘Jake’ to your uneducated human ears. Whatever, it doesn’t matter. Time to gently guide this cute fish boy back to business, even if he’s going to force you to use the verbal equivalent of a crowbar… or a battering ram. “Dirk. So, Jayquh, you don’t usually come here unless you’re chaperoning, then?”

There’s that precious goddamn blush again, but fainter this time, as his eyes flicker away from yours. “Exactamundo, my good sir. I can’t say I tend to offer my patronage to this sort of establishment in general. It can too friggin easily lead to… hmm, well, flat-out awkward situations, to tell it to you straight.”

You sigh and lean back. “Alright, I don’t wanna be some kind of asshole who can’t take a hint, but I’m a bit at sea here. If you want me to stop flirting with you and fuck off, I’m afraid you’re going to have to say so.”

“What?” His eyes go round, and no, sorry, you’ve made your intentions _explicitly_ clear, he’s absolutely not going to make you believe that he still hasn’t caught up to the fact that you’re interested in him, specifically, for having sex purposes, as soon as fucking possible. You’re pretty confident by now that playing flagrantly oblivious is just something this one does when he’s not quite sure how to react to something. Like some kind of faux-himbo. A shambo? Eh, you’ll workshop it later. “I- no. By Jove, no, that’s not what I was saying at all.” He draws in a deep breath, and you notice his gills flaring, even if presumably they’re not actually doing anything right now. “As you’re human – and forgive me if I seem like I’m jumping a gun a bit, dear chap – but I’m rather supposing that your solicitation is on the rubious side?”

“Rubi- oh, you mean red.” You shrug. “I’m not too damn choosy,” you admit bluntly, “but sure, I would appreciate it if you didn’t try to fling me across the room. I know this might sound vanilla as fuck, but a cracked skull isn’t exactly what gets me going.”

His face loses some of its tension as he once again smiles. He’s got to stop doing that, it’s making it hard to think. Except you’d also like him to never stop. “See, that’s the hopbeast, that’s right bang on the money! You don’t just expect me to do something like that without so much as an as-you-please, or spout some vicious and unpleasant hooey about your own upstanding self right out of the gate. I mean, call me addlepanned, but I think demanding to be manhandled by a fella before you’ve even asked him a good evening is a touch on the fresh side.”

“As much as I don’t mind a good manhandling, sure, asking first is a pretty basic requirement on both sides. Sounds like you’ve been pretty unlucky before.”

Jayquh shrugs, grimacing faintly. “Well, you see, it’s all this confounded, ill-starred blood caste nonsense. It’s a lot better than it used to be, but a lot of people still nonetheless assume a guy has to act a certain way just because he happens to have violet blood, and boy howdy does it seem to lead to certain… expectations.” He laughs, squirming a bit where he sits, but his eyes are bright as he looks at you. “Flog me raw for a roughgill, but I don’t think I’ve ever actually had a chance to properly confab about this before. I guess it doesn’t feel so blasted awkward, what with you not being of the troll persuasion, if you see what I mean? The point is I’m not actually very good at acting like people usually want me to, meaning most of my more, ah, spontaneous amorous entanglements tend to fall pretty fricking flat. So now I try to just avoid those kinds of dispiriting misunderstandings when I can. It’s not actually that much fun to always be a let down.”

His history of disappointing sex is decidedly a bit above your pay grade, but to your surprise you find yourself not minding too much. There’s something weirdly fascinating about this guy; or perhaps you should say... endearing? It’s hard not to like someone who seems so uncomplicated, and yet already shows signs of being subtle enough for you to struggle to keep up with him. Oh, and he’s still devastatingly attractive. That definitely didn’t stop being a thing during these last minutes. Look at that fucking hair, how the hell is it that perfect when you can clearly see that it’s not even particularly styled? You blink, realizing that you’re fiddling with the end of one of your own twists, and force your hand down into your lap. You’re not sitting around staring at him and fidgeting with your hair. That’s not happening. Even in the throes of increasing thirst, you can still maintain some simulacrum of dignity.

You find your voice after barely one false start, which you’re going to have to take as a win. “I think I can say with relative certainty that I’d be surprised as all hell if I found you disappointing, my dude. You know, for what it’s worth.”

You can actually see how he sits up a bit straighter at your words, and even if he makes a show of being flustered, you can tell that he’s practically basking in your compliment. Well shit, you… you can do compliments, can’t you? Like on purpose with the intention of charming someone? And without accidentally insulting them instead?

…you in fact have no idea how to do this at all.

“Listen, not to be too prosaic about this, but I can’t exactly say I came here looking for an immediate and abiding spiritual connection. I sat down next to you because you’re attractive and I wanted to get to know you better, preferably in the biblical sense, and I don’t actually know if I can make it much deeper than that. But if I wasn’t still incredibly interested in you, I would’ve walked off by now. I promise that no excessive violence or being a condescending asshole to me is required for this – though you know, not to be presumptuous, but let’s say we hypothetically _do_ go back to my place together, yeah? Well, if we do, you don’t have to be _too_ careful with me either. I know my bashful nature might’ve deceived you on that score, but I wouldn’t exactly call myself a delicate fucking flower.” Wow, all of that was awful. Why did you go on like that? Maybe you and Dave really are genetically related, or maybe being brought up by him is finally catching up with your ability to not shove your foot so far down your throat that your leg hair is getting stuck between your teeth. You don’t know, but if it’s the latter, you really wish it hadn’t happened _now_.

Just as you’re sure that you’ve inevitably cockblocked yourself for the evening, however, Jayquh is laughing again. His nose scrunches up right under where his glasses perch, that amazingly dangerous looking array of teeth flashing as one large hand slaps down on his nutcracker-grade thigh with a satisfyingly solid sound. He’s so damn handsome and likable, and despite yourself you can feel the corners of your mouth actually twitch a little. Still you remain a bit tense, pretty sure he’s laughing _at_ you at least to an extent, and not certain at all where this is going next. This guy makes you think of the first time you ever went skiing, and in particular that first tickling, breathless moment while hurtling down a slope, when you suddenly realized that you were not in control of the situation at all. You’d loved and hated that sensation all in one go; it had jarred your sensibilities, but it had also left you craving more of it. That’s what this feels like.

You are somehow completely unprepared when he loops an arm around your waist and pulls you closer, moving your body as easily as if you were made of cotton fluff, but… gently. So very gently. There’s not a second’s discomfort, no actual sense of danger, nothing but a sturdy arm holding you close as he tilts up your chin and beams.

“Well, lead the way then, compadre!”

* * *

Of course you wouldn’t be a Strider if you hadn’t prepared for this. You’d put a protective sheet under your normal one, because your mattress is quite expensive and you don’t want to ruin it, as well as investing in a suitably discreet bucket if he should feel the need for it. What with the sheet, you’re far from all that fussed if he elects to just make a mess instead. You’d also acquired the sort of prophylactics that are more adapted to trolls, because while there aren’t in fact any known STI’s that can actually carry over from a troll to a human, there’s nothing wrong with a bit of hygiene. Since there had obviously been no way for you to predict the exact size and shape of the bulge involved, you’d kind of had to buy a fairly wide selection just in case, so that you might be prepared for just about any blood caste, as well as any more individual variation of bits. The cashier had given you a rather strange look, but you’d just raised your eyebrows in return, giving them a polite nod. If their assumption was that you were gearing up for a very responsible and diverse orgy, well, technically you _could_ be, and what of it? It is the wont of all sentient life to seek whatever joy can be gleaned from this bitch of an earth, after all.

You’d almost grabbed some extra lube out of habit, and then realized that this was extremely unlikely to be necessary. Anyway, you’re going to be pleased with yourself for thinking of everything, and expel from your mind the thought that you approached an upcoming ONS like a fucking doomsday prepper.

The point is that once you and Jayquh enter your apartment, you have already removed as many obstacles standing in the way of a good honest fucking as possible, and you’re very much glad of it, because you’re so ready to get to the good parts. He’d kissed you in the elevator on the way up, practically lifting you off the ground, and had already managed to puncture your skin slightly when you’d grabbed his horns and pulled him closer still. He’d given the red smudge on your bottom lip a worried look when you pulled apart a moment to breathe, and you’d smirked at him and wiped at it, probably smearing the blood across your cheek rather than removing it.

“Not a delicate flower,” you’d reminded him, and after giving your grazed lip an almost apologetic little kiss, he had seemed to let it go.

You tumble through the door somewhat unsteadily, his hands already preoccupied with shedding your leather jacket from your shoulders and onto the floor, while yours start on the rest of his shirt buttons. He doesn’t pause to remark on the flat like your visitors usually do, which you suppose isn’t strange. Regardless of ongoing efforts to even out caste disparities, sea dwellers are pretty much always going to have money, and if your hunch is correct and he lives with his moirail, then yeah, he’s probably even more used to luxuries than you are. Just as well, because you’d like his lips and tongue to stay right where they are, carefully mapping out the dip in between your collarbone and neck. His lips are cooler than your skin, obviously, but not unpleasantly so, instead causing little shivers to run up and down your spine, the fine hairs on your arm rising up.

Well, that seems to be a bit of a trend.

You pull him through the living room and into your bedroom, somehow managing to peel off your top, shove the blanket off your bed and set your ass down on it in a matter of seconds. Not entirely elegant in execution, but effective. He hesitates slightly, though his hands are already working their way through the rest of his shirt buttons with a lot more skill than earlier at the bar. “Are you sure? I don’t want to wreak ruin on your bedding, if you see my meaning? Perhaps the shower-”

“Way ahead of you dude,” you reply with a studiously offhand shrug. “See, black sheets, and there’s a rubber cover under it. I told you I wasn’t planning on going home alone, didn’t I? So just toss me that towel and we’ll be fine.”

He ducks his head slightly in that bashful yet somehow elegant manner of his, and maybe it’s a bit cheap of you to keep playing up your experience all things considered, but all’s fair and so on. As far as you’re concerned, one night stands fall somewhere right between love and war. You lean back and enjoy the view, appreciating how becoming the green fabric of his shirt is against his pearly gray skin before he slides it off, unwrapping your gift for you and showing of… oh fuck. Watching him take that shirt off is honest-to-god a borderline religious experience to your thirsty ass, and for a moment you find yourself simply staring. Not to be shallow or anything, but is there a single actual flaw on the bastard? He flexes his shoulders absently, and you think vaguely about swooning couches and smelling salts, because holy shit.

After a moment of apparent consideration he unbuckles and slides off his pants as well, revealing a pair of briefs which are, uh, under some considerable tension already. There is unmistakable movement and some staining going on, and you try not to ogle his crotch too blatantly as he puts one knee on the bed and leans in, capturing your lips in another kiss. This one lingers, and you close your eyes and enjoy it. His hand on your face is so light and sure, you actually don’t notice before you open them again that he’s taken off your shades, and by then it seems a bit stupid to protest or try to take them back. So you don’t. It’s fine, you’re both in private, so it’s no big deal. You decide to distract both yourself and him by sliding your hands up his arms, approvingly tracing the curvature of his muscles as you do, fingers squeezing and massaging his shoulders and then his chest. With a bit more pressure, you can make out the supple edges of his subcutaneous chitin plates, and you glance at his face for any sign of discomfort, but he doesn’t really seem to notice. He _does_ wince a bit when you run your hands over his pupation scars, but honestly you think he might just be ticklish.

You reach his hips and think welp, here goes nothing. Time to place a hand squarely on his crotch and pretend like you’re not a little freaked out when his crotch pushes back; yeah, you can pretend that happens to you all the time. He lets out a soft groan but then winces slightly, drawing back. “Give me a twinkling or two. The fabric just… feels a bit rough.” He offers you a slightly sheepish grin – amazing, a carnivorous sheep – and you nod your understanding and decide that you might as well get rid of your own pants while he strips off his underwear. Quick enough to just lift your hips and shimmy out, kicking the rest of your clothes somewhere outside of the potential ejaculate blast radius, or so you hope. It gives you time to hastily shove the towel under your ass too.

Looking up, you don’t quite manage not to swallow hard in a blatant display of both anticipation and reasonable intimidation. Of course he’s a bit daunting, you tell yourself. For a tentacle roughly the length of your arm, it looks rather proportional to his body, and at least the girth is a lot more manageable toward the end of it. Besides, it’s not like you need to get _all_ of it inside you, your hubris hasn’t reached quite those levels yet.

Momentarily embarrassed when you realize quite how mesmerized you are, you tear your eyes away and lift your gaze to his face, only to find him studying you with similar intensity. You allow yourself another sharp smile and stretch out invitingly, lifting your hips slightly but very pointedly. Then you hook your foot around his knee and pull him closer, until he’s once again kneeling over you, the mattress dipping and letting out a creak from the sheer weight of him. Trailing your nails along the taut lines of his thighs, only taking a moment to confirm that his ass is exactly as impossibly rounded and firm as you’d imagined, you decide that’s enough fucking around before getting personally acquainted with his bulge.

It’s quite satisfying to see him close his eyes, hear his breath stutter a bit as you run your thumb along the length of it from base to tip. You stop there to pay a bit of extra fascinated attention to where it bifurcates slightly, only just enough to be a full split and no more, but in a way which creates two distinct tips instead of one. You rub one finger experimentally between them, making Jayquh shudder, and a moment later you find yourself pleasantly surprised as the appendage has wrapped itself almost imploringly around your wrist. The slightly translucent skin on it and the moisture it’s secreting makes it look almost luminous in the dimmed light of your room. It’s leaving a faint smear on your skin as it coils around you. Where it stains the lighter skin on your palm you can see the violet pigment.

You can already tell you’re going to get along great.

Your thoughts are interrupted as Jayquh gently disentangles himself and pushes you backwards on the bed, pinning you down with one leg over yours and his hands on your shoulders. You make your approval emphatically known by arching up and pressing yourself against his thigh, lifting your hands so you can bury them in his hair and curl them around his horns. Nice and sturdy, good to hold on to.

He’s leaning in to kiss you, but pauses briefly, a note of hesitation creeping into his body language. You try not to show how impatient you are, and instead raise your eyebrows in a silent question. “Ah, you’re- you’re still certain you’re not expecting something a bit more…”

Loading… “Is this about the blackrom thing again?”

“...Yyyes,” he admits, looking a bit embarrassed. “It’s just that this is the second time you, hmm-” He glances up, and you take the hint and look at your own hands. A moment later, you let go with a sigh.

“Horn pulling is strictly blackrom?” Outrageous if true.

“Well no, I wouldn’t say _strictly_ , but if you’re asking if that’s how people tend to take it more generally, that’s an affirmative. I just wanted to make sure-”

“Okay, let me stop you right there. I’m guessing you haven’t somehow forgotten that I’m human, but I think you might not be taking all the implications of that into account. I’m saying that quadrants ain’t something I’ve got or currently care about, I’m just horny. So whatever I’m doing right now is meant to communicate in as direct a fashion as possible that I want really badly to be hammered until I forget my own name, and that’s all. The nuances are pretty much lost on me.” You know you’re being unnecessarily harsh from the way he flinches and looks guilty, and try to soften – hah. – a little, even if it’s hard – hah x 2 combo, thanks, you’ll be here all week – in this situation. “Look, I guess what I’m saying is that if there’s something you’re not comfortable with, it’s fine to just tell me, but I probably won’t understand the fine details of the signals I’m sending, nor am I actually trying to subliminally telegraph just about anything beyond that I’m enjoying this and want more of it. So… is the horn pulling a problem?”

He seems to have perked up, giving you another of those simultaneously dorky and positively lethal-looking smiles. “Oh! Well in that case, the answer is a resounding and hearty no, it’s not an issue at all my lovely.” You don’t actually have time to process that he just called you lovely out of the blue, let alone get yourself properly into denial about how much you liked it, because now he’s finally getting back to kissing you. Less gently this time, but still with some care for your lips, and you take this as a sign that you’re allowed to put your hands back on his horns and throw yourself wholeheartedly into the sensation.

A moment later you’re reminded that trolls might just have the upper hand in some departments, because while his actual hands are still busy firmly pinning your shoulders down, something slides down between your legs. You grunt into his mouth and instinctively thrust up against it, and then have to tilt your head back and away so you can gasp properly for air as he caresses and then wraps around you with the tip of his bulge, sliding silky and wet against you, teasing you with the very points. It’s almost too much, and you try to remember how words work.

“C-careful, it- _fuck_. Oh fuck. Just don’t squeeze... any tighter than that. But also don’t stop, fuck, shit...”

“Right you- Right you are.”

One of his hands leaves your shoulder, his claws raking softly down your side. You can feel fluid dripping over your crotch and on your thighs, and he lets out a fluttering sigh against your neck. Well, good to know that he’s having a good time too, because the sum of what he’s doing to you is enjoyable enough that you probably wouldn’t mind if he simply continued indefinitely, despite your eagerness for more. It’s a bit jarring, if you’re to be honest. Sure, you’d had some expectations for this evening, but this is just… quite unusually good, in a way that goes beyond whatever novelty and experimentation might offer. What you’re saying is, he’s amazing at sex.

That’s not even remotely a complaint. As a general rule you tend to prefer an experienced partner. But he’d seemed so uncertain at first, somehow you’d found yourself expecting to be the one to take the lead, and to maybe have to guide him through more than a few unfamiliar new concepts. You’d been prepared to put up with that, knowing that you were going to have to learn by doing as well. But his hands on you are confident and steady, their obvious strength never quite tipping from pleasantly rough into carelessness. Normally you’d probably be a bit touchy about his continued insistence on gentleness, but somehow it doesn’t seem too bad when you’re literally in bed with someone who could, hypothetically, snap most of your bones like twigs. Less like condescension, more like simple respect and good sense.

You’re not really feeling sufficiently mentally girded to tackle the idea that maybe what’s getting you so worked up is that he’s offering you an opportunity to accept tenderness without feeling the need to get defensive on principle. As much as you enjoy staring into the abyss of your psyche and trying to get it to blink first, well damn, you’re at least hypothetically aware that there’s a time and a place. You’re _acutely_ aware that your brain is currently dumb as fuck on horniness, which is a more immediate reason to table any attempts at self-study until such a time that you can form thoughts which are slightly more complex than ‘mmm muscles nice, guy handsome, tentacle dick good’. If for no other reason than that you owe your teachers better. They’ve already had to put up with you, undoubtedly the most obnoxious student they’ve ever encountered throughout their academic careers – and considering your area of study is _philosophy_ , that’s saying something – and don’t need to be disgraced further by having their teachings squandered, even in the privacy of your own head.

Also, you really need to get your mind back to the matter at hand, because Jayquh has figured out how to rub his looped bulge up and down you, essentially jacking you off with it, and that… that feels fucking incredible. Way _too_ incredible. When he bites down on your shoulder, you actually have to squirm away a bit before something premature happens. Obviously you have no plans to stop after getting off only once – absolutely not, do you look like some fucking quitter? – but you’d like to draw out the sharp pain of needy anticipation a bit longer.

The weight of his body pressing down on you hasn’t left you that much squirming room, but he seems to get the message pretty quickly. “A bit much?” he mumbles against your neck, pulling back a bit. Despite your resolve to edge yourself for a while longer, your mutinous throat and mouth nonetheless decide that this is an appropriate time to let out a low and displeased little sound that gets dangerously close to a whine. You’re appalled. Clearing your throat and trying like hell to pretend like that didn’t happen, you attempt to actually answer his question with real words, not lewd vocalizations that do not represent you as a person.

“In the sense that it’s a bit early to get off just yet, sure,” you say, blaming the slight wobble at the end of that sentence on mild exertion and nothing else. Being this turned on is a great workout, that’s all. “Some guys want to be held in suspense for a while longer than that, dude. And just to make it totally clear, I’m some guys in this scenario. It’s me. I’m the guy who wants you to make me suffer just a bit before you let me have what I want, in a completely non-blackrom, only mildly kinky but definitely extremely enjoyable to me personally kind of way.”

Jayquh rolls his eyes a bit at that. “Well gee, I sure am glad you decided to spell that out to me, seeing as I think exclusively with my left frond hinge,” he says, his voice mostly teasing, but there’s also a hint of a warning there, suggesting that he’s not prepared to take an infinite amount of your shit. You want to push against that, whatever it is, and see exactly how hard you can get him to push back, but you know how to pick your moment.

You only just now notice that he must’ve taken off his glasses at some point, which is fair enough with all the heavy duty tongue sparring going on between you. Now they’re neatly put away next to yours on your bedside table, and maybe it’s just because he has to stare a bit harder to get you into focus, but his ridiculously pretty violet eyes seem even more intense like this. You get slightly sidetracked staring into them, and end up subsequently taken aback when he suddenly shifts his hands from your shoulders so that they instead rest right above your hips, and easily flips the two of you around in one swift movement that makes your head spin.

Not about to lament no longer being pinned down when it comes with a side of once again being picked up and handled as if you weigh nothing, you lean in and absolutely go to town on his neck. You might not have teeth that can bite right through steel wire, but you’re still more than capable of leaving a hickie or five. You quickly find out that his whole gill and fin area is very sensitive, and not even you could produce a poker face impenetrable enough to sell that it’s not gratifying as fuck to have him gasping and squirming at your mercy, rutting up against you as you straddle his lap. The wetness of his nook rubbing directly against your crotch is a bit new, but very far from unwelcome; nor do you have any objections to the outright _pulsating_ going on down there in general, which seems to actively be trying to pull you inside. You glance down, and yeah, no, you’re definitely not imagining it, because there’s a distinctly _inwards_ quality to those motions, which comes across a lot clearer in person than when you’ve been watching porn. You mention it to him, unhurriedly, a bit preoccupied still with leaving a trail of little bites all down the side of his neck and appreciatively squeezing his biceps – if that’s actually what trolls call those muscles, you don’t know. He laughs, a bit too breathless to be truly apologetic.

“Sorry, it’s a rather instinctive thing.”

“Did that sound like a complaint?”

“Now that you mention it, I guess not!” He’s enthusiastically and sort of randomly feeling you up in much the same way that you’re sampling his arms, running his hands across your chest with an appreciative sound which you find seductively easy to believe in. His gray fingers look a bit strange against your brown skin, kind of ghostly in a way, but his touch is anything but. You press against him a bit harder, grinding against the base of his bulge and whatever the proper name is for all those little jutting-out, squirming parts inside the slit. The porn you’ve watched has also been lamentably remiss when it comes to terminology. It’s rather like getting a very slick and intimate massage, and as a bonus makes Jayquh hit his head against the headboard and let out a long string of the sexiest bug noises you’ve ever heard. You notice one of his horns leaves a mark, and you’d make a ‘notch in bedpost’-joke about it, but you’ve got other things on your mind.

His bulge, occupied for a while with more generally rubbing against your whole ass and thigh area, and probably making a glorious fucking mess of you, decides to suddenly slide in between your ass cheeks. You feel the tip pressing against you in a fairly intimate way, not quite entering you, but emphatically making you want it to. Both you and he groan simultaneously, though your voice sounds a bit more like a growl, while his rises into a register somewhere between cat hiss and cicada. He cradles your jaw in his hand, the claw of his thumb scraping slowly down your throat, and you tilt your head back appreciatively.

“Is that alright? I mean, do you want me to continue, or-?”

“Fuck yes. But not like this, or we’ll quickly be revisiting the previously mentioned problem regarding suspense.”

He looks a little bit amused. “Call me a leery old rascal, but I’m starting to suspect that the problem isn’t one of maintaining proper suspense in the act, as it were, but rather one of lack of self-control in the audience.” As if to prove his point, he slides his hand further back and winds your hair firmly around his fingers, making you shudder as he gives a slow, measured tug which inexorably tightens.

“Yeah, well, in my defense, have you seen yourself? Case fucking closed. Also it’s been a while and you’re far from completely hopeless in bed.” You don’t feel nearly as embarrassed of that admission as you somehow think you ought, even though you usually try a lot harder to maintain the ‘too cool for this, you’re going to have to work a lot harder than that’ act. You’re not sure exactly where your sudden ease is coming from; it’s one thing to not be actively defensive, and somehow another to enjoy yourself without constantly wondering if you ought to be reining yourself in. The latter feels a lot more like letting your guard down. Maybe it’s because Jayquh toes such a strange line between being visibly self-conscious and simultaneously unaware of how to tone himself down, that some vulnerability in his presence doesn’t seem like such a big deal – or perhaps it’s just that the way you met was a lot less impersonal than you tend to make these kind of engagements.

Either way, you find yourself with a slight smile pulling at your lips as you lock eyes with the infectious bastard, and you lean in for another kiss before you momentarily dismount. You direct him to sit up a bit more straight against the headboard and pull his legs up a bit, before slipping down into his lap once again, this time facing away from him. As much as you usually enjoy this kind of position, you instantly feel a bit robbed of those borderline perilous kisses and the way you’d been able to watch his expression shift every time you moved. But then his arms are curling around your waist and pulling you closer to his chest, and okay, maybe this isn’t too bad either. You can feel the tentative pressure returning, spreading you and slicking your skin, and you have to award two more points in favor of trolls. Firstly because you don’t have to think too hard about the crude arithmetic you normally associate with working out how to position yourself, since he’s a bit more flexible in that area. Secondly because built-in lube is a definite bonus no matter how you see it.

“Like this?” Jayquh murmurs in your ear, his voice so low and rough that you swear you can feel it in your spine.

“ _Yes_ ,” you pant out, your capacity for eloquence running dangerously low, but you can still manage some coherent thoughts. “Just… condoms, bedside table.” You push yourself up a bit to allow him to move, taking the opportunity to unashamedly finger your ass right in his face, working that lubrication in nicely. You feel the pressure against your thigh as he reaches over, and then a bit of a pause.

“Well that is… certainly an abundance. I’d go so far as to call it a virtual cornucopia.”

 _Shit_. You’d completely forgotten about stashing up on enough troll prophylactics to weather a minor sex-themed apocalypse. A fuckopalypse. You’re just… not going to look at him right now. It’s not that you mind him thinking that you’re a total slut – a dude can but dream – but it also strikes you that it may come across as a bit desperate, or possibly even fetishistic, and the last part in particular sits uncomfortably with you. You’ve dealt with enough white guys on Grindr that made your skin crawl to not be too keen on passing that feeling on. But you also don’t really know what to say about it. Should you apologize? Try to explain? Absolute nix to the latter, you know that wouldn’t end well, and the former seems like it’ll only make you come off as more suspicious.

Before you can get any further into the panic spiral, your thoughts are cut short by the tiny sound of a condom wrapper tearing, which at least seems to indicate that he’s not ready to just get up and walk out of here. You glance surreptitiously over your shoulder, but apparently not surreptitiously enough, because he looks up from what he’s doing and grins broadly at you. “Doesn’t hurt to go prepared into the fray, am I right?” he says, and actually _waggles his eyebrows_ at you. That’s a thing he thought was appropriate to do with impunity, in a real life situation involving sex. You gape at him, and then have to practically fold yourself double over his knees to hide your laughter, because you have no idea how you’re supposed to hold onto even the smallest shred of dignity if he sees you giggling like a schoolgirl at his antics. But you can’t help it. It had been… sweet, and your relief at not being seen as some kind of predatory creep does the rest.

He lets out an amused snort behind you, and gives your ass a light smack, something you’re not exactly averse to, but the suddenness of it nonetheless makes you jump slightly. Damn, his hands are so big and _solid_ , it felt kind of like being spanked with a cinder block. Except they’re also really soft and expertly manicured, something you don’t usually see in your average concrete masonry unit. “Ready and raring to go then, pal?”

“Do you usually talk to people you’re planning to fuck as if they’re racehorses?” you counter, even as you’re sinking back against him, tilting your head sideways in a clear invitation to get his lips and teeth on your neck again. “But yeah, I’m ready.”

Whatever his answer was going to be, he only gets a couple of words out before the whole sentence falls apart on him, turning into a low rumble deep in his chest and his hands tightening on your thighs. You close your eyes, a blissful sound leaving your lips as you relax, because at this point you _need_ this, and while ‘deserve’ is a strong word, you think you’ve worked reasonably hard for it at least. Leaning further back against the firm expanse of his chest, until you can rest the back of your head against the wall above the headboard, you feel him pushing further and further inside you, moving in a curiously twisting and curling manner as he explores you. It’s so mesmerizing and, well, so damn _good_ that it takes you a moment to realize that you’re starting to cross over from ‘challenging’ into areas of ‘outright hubris’, the kind that leaves people with extensive wax burns and broken spines. You give his thigh a pat and clear your throat. “Hey, that’s… that’s plenty. It’s not like I don’t see the appeal in being fucked quite literally to organ damage or death, but perhaps not on a first date, you know?”

He makes a concerned little trilling sound, nipping at your shoulder. “Is it too much?” You reply by pushing down against him, but his grip on your hips suddenly becomes like rock, and you find yourself unable to move. “I really don’t want to hurt you,” he says firmly, and once again you find that something that ought to make you feel pissed about being handled with silken gloves, ends up somehow being unbearably hot when it’s coming from him.

You swallow hard, trying to find your voice. “No, it’s- it’s not too much. I’ll tell you if it’s too much, alright?”

“Promise?” His claws are digging slightly into your hip bones. You squirm.

“Yeah, I promise, alright? I solemnly swear it on every single overpriced anime sword replica I own.” God, _what_? Are you _trying_ to embarrass yourself? Has your ironic doubling down on all your cringy hobbies in fact always been part of some kind of recursive humiliation kink? “Now will you please, please, pretty fucking please just fuck me already?”

He actually has the nerve to laugh. “Oh? Pardon me, but I thought you were the one who said he wanted to suffer. Maybe I misheard you, huh?”

He shifts slightly inside you, and you could swear that you’re on the verge of blacking out from sheer desperation. “Please,” you say again, and this time there’s hardly any sarcasm left in your voice. You’re in fact dangerously close to begging him for real. “ _Please_ …” Yeah, you’re… not even going to comment on that second one.

“Oh, well, since you’re asking so nicely.”

You’re not proud of the noise you make when he finally allows you to move again, but on the flip side you’re not exactly ashamed of it either. Sometimes you just have to embrace your inner needy bitch and moan like a porn star as a guy thrusts his giant tentacle up your ass, and that’s okay. Shit, someone should embroider that on a sampler. It’s a tragedy that the only person you know who embroiders is Kanaya, and you actually have some shame left in in your body that this handsome fish boy hasn’t managed to fuck out of you yet. There are just some things you don’t ask of your lesbian sort-of-aunt.

You also don’t think about _any_ of your lesbian aunts period while getting tenta-fucked, and you quickly banish Kanaya back into the void, which is basically what your head is increasingly full of anyway. Head more blissfully empty with every second, you ride that squirming bulge as if you’re a down-on-your-luck cowboy and this rodeo is your one chance to make it big and take home the prize money to feed your starving family. You’re still making way more of those loud paying-the-pizza-boy-in-ass kind of sounds than what is good for your ego, but at least Jayquh isn’t exactly shy about responding in kind. That rumble in his chest is more or less constant now, though a touch more sharp and strident than before, and in between the myriad of strange little insect sounds and more traditional moans and gasps, he’s leaving very little room to doubt that he’s in fact enjoying himself a lot. Enjoying you a lot too.

You desperately want to reach down between your legs and help things along a bit, but you stubbornly curl your hands into fists and try to control the urge. It works for a little while as you tell yourself that _giving up isn’t an option_ over and over, but your faith in yourself starts to rapidly wane as he tugs at your hair again and murmurs something about how lovely you look. You’re still not sure what to do with that word intellectually, but physically it’s taking you apart. Surely it wouldn’t hurt if-

You urgently guide his hands up under your arms and onto your shoulders, which has the double appeal of making it even easier for him to pull your bodies together, and also locking your arms firmly in place so that you _can’t_ touch yourself. You both congratulate and hate yourself for this decision almost instantly.

You keep going until you’re close to frantic, and your violent shuddering and staccato gasping once more get Jayquh to hold you still and check that you’re alright. With a herculean effort you manage to refrain both from swearing at him as well as whine pitifully, and instead breathlessly assure him you’ve probably never been better in your life, unless he’s actually planning to stop, in which case you don’t want to be dramatic but you _will_ die. He asks you what you need, and you’re only too happy to show him. Changing positions again takes a little bit of careful cooperation, but it’s well worth it to find yourself with your ass in the air as he destroys what little is left of your self-control with only a few quick twists inside you. At that point you barely even _have_ to touch yourself at all, the merest brush of your fingers is enough to finally undo you.

You’re beyond making even the slightest sound at this point, and so you just shove your ass hard against him and twist your free hand hard in the sheets, your thighs trembling first with effort, then with knife-edged anticipation, and finally with impossible pleasure. You’re vaguely aware of your mouth opening in a silent scream, your whole body jolting helplessly against him, against your hand, against the very idea that needing to control it has ever been that important. It feels amazing, but the true _release_ only comes as you feel him stroke your back and softly tell you how good you’re doing, how beautiful you are, how much he wants you to feel good. That’s the moment when your mind finally dissolves like cotton candy in water, and you’re vaguely aware of downright sobbing from satisfaction, slumping onto the bed now that your muscles have apparently decided to tap out too.

Jayquh follows you and gathers the shivering mess that is all that remains of you up in his arms, pulling out slowly and carefully, which you appreciate in this overstimulated state. He rearranges your boneless body so that he’s spooning you, strong arms wrapped securely about your waist and your legs tangling haphazardly together. You lose yourself a little bit in the sensation of simply being held, but not so much that you can’t appreciate his jagged breathing in your ear as his bulge slides easily in between your bodies. As you feel him arch needily against you, his arms shaking, you turn your head and kiss him hard. He moans into your mouth, voice sharp with urgency, and then abruptly pushes you face-down against the mattress, claws digging into your chest as he braces his hips against your ass. A second later he comes all over your damn back. Quite literally all over. The condom apparently only functions to redirect, not contain, meaning the troll jizz explosion starts around the base and from inside his nook, pulsating out of him with each shudder that shakes his body, and quickly spreads as his bulge thrashes against your skin.

Messy, yes, but _deeply_ satisfying.

As soon as you get your faculties back enough to remember how words work, you smirk at him and tug at one of his horns.

“You should probably drink some water,” you rasp out, “because I’m not done.”

  
  


The morning after, you’ve managed to come four times, and he three – any more and he might’ve actually passed out from dehydration. But the last time involved introducing Jayquh to blowjobs, a concept which had genuinely shocked and scandalized him at first. When you’d given him a look of pure confusion, he’d tapped the vicious edge of one of his teeth in reply, which yes, did rather explain why trolls might not engage in oral sex as much. But surely he was aware that it was in fact really common among humans? He’d replied with an embarrassed grin and a shrug that he’d thought that was just one of those things people did all the time in porn, but which almost no one would dream of doing in real life.

Fucking adorable.

Anyway, that had definitely been an experience. Even after he’d already gotten off twice, it was a little bit like someone just straight up tipping a bucket of purple cum over your head – except without the pail-shaped middle man ever getting involved. Just you and an exploding crotch, dousing whatever parts of your body that might otherwise have remained relatively dry.

Extremely uncharacteristically, after he returned the favor one last time, you ended up actually falling asleep right in the middle of the mess, his arms wrapped around your chest and one of his fins poking into your back as he snored. This of course means that when you wake up several hours later, you’re completely covered in all that’s best in troll ejaculate, which remains kind of slimy. At least it doesn’t dry crusty like human cum, but considering you can actually peel some of it off like a thick film, and the soaked towel sticks to your body when you try to sit up, it’s still unmistakably time for a shower.

He comes stumbling in after about ten minutes, needing a wash almost as bad as you did. He’s a bit bleary-eyed, but unrealistically upbeat and jovial, and you’re fine with him joining you. You mess around a bit, but mostly you just enjoy the combination of the hot water and his muscles, his wet hair forming into unruly curls around his forehead, his hands idly tracing the contours of your body.

When you’re about two thirds through washing your hair he suddenly sends you a somewhat concerned look, and once you’ve washed the conditioner out that look changes into mild alarm. You raise your eyebrows at him, and he looks strangely abashed as he reaches out and tugs gently at a lock of your hair, bringing it down in front of your eyes. You try not to go cross-eyed, and at first you can only really see the grey blur of his hand, until you manage to focus and realize what he’s trying to show you.

Your hair is violet. Really obviously violet.

“I… did not know that would happen,” he says, the words tumbling out quickly as you rub your hands over your face and groan. “If I had, you can be darn sure I wouldn’t have- well, you know...”

“No, it’s- You’re good. This is my own damn fault.” You grimace, trying to figure out how to fix the situation. The idea of going down to the hair salon and asking the nice people there to bleach hell out of your hair to get rid of this particular dye job just seems… wrong. Also it would ruin your hair completely to do that. “It’s bleached, and I should’ve known dousing it in a heavily pigmented substance and then leaving that shit in was going to do this. That’s on me, you couldn’t have known.”

“If you knew how dreadfully poked up I feel about this, I-”

“I said it’s fine,” you cut him short firmly. “It’s not a bad color or anything. I’ll just say I wanted to switch things up if anyone asks.”

‘Anyone’ specifically meaning your bro in this context, in case you’re not so lucky that the violet is washed out by the time he gets back home. Him, at least, you might be able to fool. Roxy will clock you in two seconds flat, and then waste even less time telling Jane. Welp. You’ll burn that bridge when you get to it, and possibly just fling yourself into the river for good measure.

* * *

Somehow, you don’t actually manage to tell Jayquh to leave. Instead you have brunch together, which he cooks, whistling happily the whole time as he practically skips around, while wearing only his underwear and a stupid apron with a chiseled human torso on it that Roxy had gotten you ‘for teh lulz’. It looks hideously out of place on him. As he carries the food into the living room where you wait, he notices your rad as hell poster from the release of your bro’s very first movie, which he had ironically signed, misspelling your name on purpose and then writing ‘LOVE YOU BRO’ in stupidly huge letters which are absolutely mortifying to look at and in no way make you feel all warm and safe every time you read them. Jayquh immediately starts to gush over it, and it turns out that he’s a _huge_ fan of your bro’s early original work. Unironically. Even the one Dave’s idiot closeted ass had named The Man With The Iron Tits. Jayquh says he cried at the end. You’re already too embarrassed on his behalf to actually tell him that his big idol is in fact your adoptive parent, but when he sees your movie collection and just about explodes with glee, you don’t have it in you to disappoint him. In the most casual way possible, you ask, “Hey, wanna watch one?”

Surprising no one, he very much does, babbling happily about how great this is and how his dumb moirail never wants to watch movies with him, and you already have a pretty good idea of why that might be. Four movies later, with breaks for food and sex, it has been confirmed beyond any doubt that this stupidly attractive dumbass has literally the worst taste in movies on this planet. And you grew up around Auntie June, so that’s just… incredible. Impressive, even. But Jayquh is also really _fun_ to watch movies with, even objectively irredeemable ones like Avatar, and before you know it you’ve failed to kick him out before night comes around.

You end up spending two weeks on and off together. You have no idea what the fuck is happening. You think you might actually just be enjoying his company? His enthusiasm and his weird quirk, his unabashed passion for literally anything anyone’s ever deigned to shit onto a movie screen, his easy way of handling your pushy ass, his strange blend of ‘rough and tumble’ – as he puts it – and sincere gentleness. You find yourself falling asleep on his chest one evening without even making a pass at him, and wake up to realize that you’re _spooning,_ his arms cradling you protectively in the flickering light of the looping movie title screen.

The day after he refers to you offhandedly as his “sweetest heart”, and that’s when you realize that you might’ve accidentally gotten yourself a boyfriend. Matesprit. Whatever the hell this is. Worse yet, once the realization hits, you’re so fucking giddy that you have to down almost an entire thing of soda in your attempt to cover up your confusion. That’s how bad it is.

* * *

Oh, and the violet does _not_ wash out of your hair. At all. You certainly wouldn’t say it looks bad on you; it kind of offsets your eyes, picks out the amber tones and makes them look almost orange in some lights, which is neat. It’s a bit paler than Jayquh’s actual blood color, so it doesn’t stand out too obviously, and you’re secure enough that you can put up with looking absolutely fantastic in pastels from time to time without having some kind of crisis about it. When you run into Aunt Rose at the grocery store, she looks you right in the eyes and compliments you on your ‘new aesthetic’, in what is either a genuine compliment or an act of psychological warfare, and you have no way of telling which it is. Probably both, knowing her.

You’re still kind of freaking out about how to explain it to Dave. You want to pass it off as just an impulse thing, experimenting with your look like any fashion-conscious dude might, but the more you practice your lines inside your head, the more it all falls apart on you. Because you’re actually just as terrible as he is at playing nonchalant when you’re flustered. Because you don’t really know how you’ll deal with any follow-up questions – e.g. if he asks who did it for you, you might expire on the spot. And maybe also because you getting your hair did together and all that has been a Bro Thing between you for a while now, and you worry that he’ll end up feeling hurt, or that it’ll make him think that you want to retire that little tradition for good. It’s stupid, but… you don’t want him to think that those evenings don’t mean anything to you.

So you’ve worked yourself into a tense, indecisive mess by the time you hear someone messing around in his apartment, dropping shit on the floor and turning on the coffee maker. Even so, it’s been two whole weeks, and not to be a complete baby about it, but you’ve missed him a lot. So though you dread the inevitable conversation concerning your new look, you nonetheless knock on the door that separates your two flats. “Hey bro, can I come in?”

“...Uh, sure. Yeah, sure. ‘Course you can.” Hmm. He sounds a bit weird.

“You tired or something? I can drop in later if you want.”

“No no no, I’m good. Come in here little man, I’ve missed you.”

Still confused by his somewhat erratic answer, you nonetheless decide that if he wanted you to fuck off, he’d just tell you. So you open the door. He spins around from where he’d been messing around in the fridge, and you can already tell that the movement is a bit too smooth and controlled, his smile just a little bit exaggerated. The amount of time it takes you to work out why this is, is exactly the same amount it takes for him to say, “Oh hey, I, uh...” and then falter into silence.

You stare at him.

He stares at you.

You stare at him.

He persists in staring at you.

Oh god.

His hair is pink. A beautifully luminous rosy pink, like a goddamn sunset over the sea or some shit. The kind of pink a person might achieve, to take an example completely at random, if he dumped some red pigment on his bleached hair and let it sit there overnight. Every excuse you’d been planning to make shrivels and dies in your throat, along with something that feels like it might just be your soul. You wish you _could_ have the big, brassy balls to just lie about it anyway. To go ahead as if nothing has changed and everything is fine, nothing to see here folks, just two bros having a perfectly normal one. Not a single damn thing is out of the ordinary and under no circumstances is it painfully fucking obvious that _you’re not the only one who accidentally dyed your hair with troll jizz._

You really wish you could do that.

What you do instead is let out a sound like some kind of rodent dying a painful death. Your hands do not feel adequate, so you cross your arms instead and push your burning face against them, thinking vaguely about how you should’ve learned to break necks with your bare hands like someone who graduated top of their class from the Navy SEALs, and maybe that way you’d be able to just put a merciful end to yourself right away. Outside of your own private hell of chagrin, you hear Dave starting to laugh so hard that you can tell he’s going to need his inhaler in a minute. Somewhere by the door, the irritable voice of a stranger demands to know what’s so fucking funny, and if Dave is going to help carrying anything inside. And on the other side of the wall to your apartment, you hear Jayquh slamming the door open and shouting something indistinct about pizza.

It’s going to be a long fucking day.

“Hey, can I have a slice?” Dave asks.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> ...i am not sorry.
> 
> also, there will definitely be a sequel oneshot detailing the events of dirk & jayquh manfully surviving the chaos that is dave's & karkat's wedding.


End file.
